


Love the Way You Lie

by Lehua



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9914954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lehua/pseuds/Lehua
Summary: Slight AU.  Happens after the Fall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**John’s POV**

John spent the first year after Sherlock died drinking…and waiting. He took everything one-day-at-time, hoping without saying that Sherlock would walk through the door, alive and well. He would spend whole days lying in bed and wishing he’d hear the excited tread of Sherlock as he bounded up the stairs, finally home. But the flat was silent except for Mrs. Hudson puttering around, cleaning up nothing and making pots of tea that grew cold on the kitchen table.

For the first few months everyone dropped by leaving food and making small talk, but John couldn’t talk, couldn’t pretend to care as he sat in his chair, Sherlock’s empty seat a betrayal of everything he thought he knew. When Lestrade found him shooting the smiley face, he took John’s gun and then called Mycroft to have his minions scour the flat to make sure there weren’t any other firearms. John didn’t care; he was beyond wanting to shoot himself in the head: took too much effort. Molly dropped by a few times, looking nervous and surprisingly optimistic, but John couldn’t muster any enthusiasm beyond anger. How was she taking Sherlock’s death so well when she’d held shut a bright torch for the world’s only consulting detective? How was she not a wreck like John? Why was John the only one completely broken? She stopped coming when he yelled at her, accusing her of betraying Sherlock’s memory by not being devastated. He knew, even as he said it, it was unfair of him to spew the hatred he felt festering in his chest at her; Molly wasn’t the cause and didn’t deserve his censure. But everything just hurt.

How could the world go on without Sherlock Holmes in it? How was the world not in mourning for losing its favorite high functioning sociopath? There would never be another like Sherlock Holmes, and John was pretty sure he’d never be half the man he was with Sherlock without him. John Watson died with Sherlock Holmes; now he was just John, an alcoholic ex-army ex-doctor. The tremors and limp came back, and it took some doing to find his cane because Sherlock had appropriated it at some point, probably for some experiment (it was in Sherlock’s wardrobe…in his room…which took weeks for John to find because he avoided going into Sherlock’s room until there was no other place to look). He lost his job, lost his appetite, and lost all his friends to neglect.    

Except Mrs. Hudson, who continued to try to feed and coddle him, and sometimes would just sit with him as he cried in silent agony. When the nightmares came back he would find her trying to soothe him, his voice hoarse from screaming; she would hold his hand as he cried aloud, a sharp keening spilling from his lips. Her voice in the silence anchored him as he tried to find his way through this grief; it was a physical entity sitting on his chest, slowly suffocating him day by day.

He doesn’t know what triggered his eventual emergence from seclusion. Sherlock had been dead for eight months and John woke one morning covered in sweat and tangled in his bedsheets. He stared up at the ceiling, letting the silence settle in his bones, and thought, _This is real; this is my life without Sherlock_. He turned his head and saw a cup of cold tea on a table, probably left there by Mrs. Hudson the previous night. His cell phone also sat on the table, miraculously unbroken (he was pretty sure he threw it across the room while in a rage, pieces scattering everywhere in the living room). Clumsy fingers grabbed it, almost dropping it on the floor, but he finally had it in his hands, and it looked like his phone—same model---but new. “Thanks, Mycroft,” he said, pretty sure there was a bug somewhere nearby, maybe even in the damn phone.

He found the number he needed and waited for someone to pick up. When it went to voice mail, he said, “It’s John. I need to make an appointment for…whenever. Don’t have anything else to do at the moment, so next available.” He disconnected and dropped the phone on his chest, watching the shadows on the ceiling as he waited. He jumped when his phone buzzed twenty minutes later with a text alert.

Good to hear from you, John. I have a 5 PM available today.

See you at 5. JW

 

Seeing Ella, his therapist, again after all this time didn’t heal the chasm in John’s life, but eventually he was able to live around the emptiness. He dumped all the alcohol in the flat and began walking. He stayed close to Baker St, the cane clicking around with him as he roamed the neighborhood. He knew the limp and some of the pain was all in his head, but he couldn’t leave the house without it, maybe because Sherlock had kept it despite neither of them needing it. Sherlock’s habit of appropriating John’s things without John’s knowledge or ire (except the laptop) warmed John’s heart. If John went through Sherlock’s room, what other things would he find of his among his best friends possessions?

“John!”

He startled as someone enveloped him in an embrace and then steered him into a restaurant, seating him at the window. John looked up to see the face of the restaurant’s proprietor, Angelo, smiling down at him. “I will bring your favorite,” Angelo said, then bustled off to the kitchen.

John leaned his cane against the wall and sat looking at the chair Sherlock occupied across from him, except he wasn’t there, and fresh tears started falling from his eyes. A disturbance nearby didn’t draw him from his renewed grief, and it was some time before he realized Angelo had come back and was sitting next to him, his arm around John’s shoulders as he shook. “I’m sorry,” John said, sniffing and straightening in his chair.

Angelo pulled away and knelt in front of John, bouncing on his feet a little. He placed a hand on John’s knee and said, “I miss him too.” The fresh tears on Angelo’s face almost started another round of crying, but Angelo stood up and patted John on the shoulder. “Food; you must be starving. Look at you: skin and bones.”

This time John didn’t go into hysterics as he stared at Sherlock’s chair. He ate everything Angelo put in front of him without tasting it, and when there was no more room in his stomach, Angelo packed him several to-go boxes, urging him to remember to eat later. Angelo refused payment and John was at the door of 221B Baker Street when he heard a familiar tread: Angelo stood there as he had so many years ago, John’s cane in hand, and John remembered giggling with Sherlock in the foyer after chasing a cab around London. John juggled all the bags into one hand, hugged Angelo, and took his cane back, smiling.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Angelo said, then hurried off.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door. “John, why are you standing on the stoop? Come in come in. What’s this?” she said, taking the bags.

“Dinner,” John said, following his landlady as she climbed the stairs to the flat.

“For how many days?” she said, putting everything in the fridge, and then putting the kettle on for tea.

John laughed and she turned, her eyebrows raised and mouth open, and because John knew he’d been awful for so long, he hugged her and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

Her cheeks turned pink and she fluttered around the kitchen, making tea and talking a mile a minute. John sat down and didn’t really hear anything she said, and when she placed a cup of tea in front of him he sipped it and told her to sit with him a while, and she filled the silence with words as he looked around the flat, sunlight streaming through the windows.

When the tea was done and he’d ushered her out the door with a box of food from Angelo’s, John sat in his chair and stared at Sherlock’s. The pain in his chest was still there, but it had eased a bit. He picked up the paper Mrs. Hudson had left on the table and began to scan it for potential cases for Sherlock. A sudden sharp pain in his chest, as if someone were stabbing him with an ice pick, reminded him he didn’t need to look anymore. He put the paper down and made a mental note: cancel paper delivery. He wasn’t going to look at another one ever again.

 

Fourteen months after Sherlock died, John stood in front of Sherlock’s headstone, hands clenching and unclenching. He would be starting a new job tomorrow and needed to tell Sherlock, needed to be here where Sherlock’s transport lay decomposing, needed to tell his best friend that he was moving on, needing one more miracle. “Don’t be dead,” John said, jaw clenching, fighting to keep the tears from falling. When he got no response from the universe, John nodded, crisply turned around and walked away.

Working at the ER was sometimes exciting: London was a big enough city to have a variety of idiots and people who were just generally unlucky to keep the work interesting. There were also periods of quiet, time to catch up on paperwork, time to read through medical journals to refresh his knowledge. He renewed his friendships with NSY, catching Lestrade and Donavan in the ER for cases with a living witness. Lestrade tried to draw him back into the fold, but John resisted, and when Lestrade was finally comfortable with John’s recovery from grief, he returned John’s gun, almost two years after Sherlock died.

John went to St. Bart’s on his day off, flowers in hand, and apologized to Molly. She stood nervously, looking down at the ground as he held out the flowers, and eventually she took them, but John knew it wouldn’t be the same; he could see the angry words uttered in pain had affected her, and he couldn’t unsay them, so he mourned a little for their lost friendship. And then, unable to stop himself, he went to the roof and sat near the edge, feeling his grief settle over him like a cloak. No one noticed him go up, and no one noticed him leave.

He met Mary seventeen months after Sherlock died. John isn’t sure how the ER nurse captured him in her bed, or why her presence filled a hole he hadn’t realized he’d had in his heart. She couldn’t replace Sherlock, couldn’t take over the giant space in John’s chest reserved for Sherlock, but she could give John something new, a new type of love that wasn’t as strong but it was true. John doesn’t want to think it was inertia that brought them together, doesn’t want to question why he needed to move in with her instead of moving her into Baker Street. He never brought Mary home; he didn’t want his memories of Sherlock to become muddled with his reality with Mary.

Mrs. Hudson cried when he left and Mycroft actually made a visit to Baker Street, the latter of which was disconcerting and filled John with a fresh feeling of rage at the elder Holmes brother.    

“Isn’t this your home, John? Why not bring her here?” Mycroft said.

John stared at Mycroft like he’d grown another head. “Are you serious?”

Mycroft nodded.

John stood up from his chair and spun around, his arms flung out to the room in general. “Do you see any room for her?” He stomped over to Sherlock’s room and threw open the door. “Do you really think that I can—” but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t remove a thing, and he wouldn’t subject Mary to the ghost of his flat mate. It was bad enough Sherlock occupied every waking thought: he wouldn’t ask Mary to move into the Baker Street where Sherlock’s ghost was haunting its lonely rooms.

Mycroft leaned over John and peered into the room. The bed was freshly made and the room was free of dust, Mrs. Hudson caring for Sherlock’s memory as a mother waiting for the return of her wayward child. “I can have things—”

“No!” John said, pushing Mycroft back and slamming the door. Sherlock was gone, he wasn’t coming back, but removing his things, clearing out Baker Street was the final thing that would break John. His best friend was gone from the world but he was also here, at Baker Street, at home with John.

Mycroft is confused but John doesn’t have any energy to explain, doesn’t want to say he knows with his head that Sherlock is dead, but his heart hopes leaving Baker Street as it is will somehow bring Sherlock back. Voicing this wish would negate its power; John is still hoping for a miracle.

Before Mycroft leaves, he says, “He would want you to stay.”

“He doesn’t get to dictate my life from the other side. If he wants me to stay, he should tell me himself.” John is done and Mycroft leaves without another word.

 

Twenty-nine months after Sherlock died, John is a father. Rosie is perfect and fills him with life and laughter, his heart lifting from the dark clouds of his continued grief. He and Mary married soon after finding out she was pregnant, a small ceremony with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft (John scoured the flat for bugs but found none). The elder Holmes brother insisted John and his new family spend Rosie’s first Christmas in the country with the Holmes parents, and after much debate and a promise of Mycroft becoming Rosie’s godfather, John agreed because Mary had no family and John was estranged from his parents.

Sherlock’s parents were, well, different. Mrs. Holmes was a mathematician and Mr. Holmes was retired, and John couldn’t see any grief about their missing child. John and his little family were greeted warmly and installed in a guest room, and while Mary and Rosie napped, John was immersed in memories of a Sherlock before they met. Mr. Holmes pulled albums out and showed John all the awards the young Sherlock won. Sherlock’s boyhood room was still filled with all the things that would eventually make Sherlock into the man he became: instruments, books on bees, textbooks on anatomy, and small skeletal models of different animals. Dust had settled over everything, and John smiled when he found a lone sock peeking out from under the bed. Mr. Holmes just stood and watched John touch Sherlock’s things.

“How can you stand it?” John said softly.

“Hmm?”

“He’s gone.” John could feel the grief crawling up his esophagus. “He was my best friend and I couldn’t—” John waved at the room.

Mr. Holmes shuffled his feet but said nothing.

After Christmas, which was pleasant, John promised himself he wouldn’t go back, couldn’t look at Sherlock’s parents and not want to shake them, want to scream in their faces that Sherlock was dead and they should be at least concerned, not happy to play with a baby who was in no way related to them. Mary found the whole experience great and made plans to see them around Easter.

 

**Mary’s POV**

Mary wanted to pop Sherlock once in the face when he didn’t show up at Christmas. Why go through all the trouble of getting John to go see Sherlock’s parents if the man himself wasn’t going to show up? When Mycroft walked through the door alone she wanted to strangle the whole family. John was bewildered, the hurt fresh as the people who were closest to Sherlock acted like Sherlock was just on vacation, not dead like the world was pretending. Really, the whole thing was a testament to how much John mattered, because no one questioned her alias, no one looked deeper into her cover story to find the seams.

This assignment went sideways as soon as it started, and Mary didn’t know if she should disappear or keep up the pretense. And then that choice was taken away from her when she realized she was pregnant and she wanted to keep the baby and yes, she would love to marry John Watson. There was a moment as they exchanged vows in front of a judge where she was sure Mycroft was going to object and burn her life to the ground, but he remained silent, and Mary breathed deeply for the first time since she began this thing with John. Surely, if Mycroft didn’t see a problem then there wasn’t a problem: that man was the British Government. A very small part of her was happy she’d gotten away with it.

So she was surprised when she found herself standing next to Sherlock Holmes as she walked back to the flat after a long shift, waiting to cross the street. “Finally come to your senses, then?” she said without looking.

Sherlock’s spine stiffened and she smiled.

“I should punch you and Mycroft for Christmas, but I’ll let John do that.”

Sherlock looked down his nose at her. “Does John know?”

Mary snorted and started crossing the street, Sherlock on her heels. “John has lost his edge since your death.”

“You didn’t know him before—”

She rounded on him when they reached the other side. “But I do know him now,” she said fiercely, poking Sherlock’s sternum. “And I know that if you’re not serious about really being here this time, John will break completely. So before you go and upend the life he’s worked hard to put together after your stunt, think about what is really good for John.” She stalked off.

 

The next time she stood at the light after a shift, Sherlock said, “Do you think I should reveal myself?”

Mary shook her head. “If I was petty, I’d say no. But I love John despite myself, and I would like to know the John Watson that died with Sherlock Holmes.”

“I hadn’t realized the depth of his affection when I jumped,” Sherlock said softly, and Mary was unsure whether she was supposed to hear that or not. She was sure John hadn’t known either. The old Mary wanted to put a gun to Sherlock’s head and kill him, solving both their problems, but when she married John she promised to really be the ER nurse who fell in love with the army doctor.

 

On a different day, Sherlock says, “Were you planted to kill me?”

This time Mary’s spine stiffened.

“You said ‘despite’ yourself, so I really took a look at you. Not sure how Mycroft missed all the signs, but you were an assassin, probably worked for the British Government, which will make it even more fun to rub Mycroft’s nose in.”

 _John always said the Holmes brother’s had a perverse sense of affection_ , Mary thought. Aloud, she replied, “Maybe, but since my employer is dead and I haven’t received an instructions in years, I think I can safely say you don’t need to worry about that with me.”

“I could just kill you,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled beside her.

She glanced at him. “And kill John’s wife and the mother of his child?”

Sherlock shrugged. “One more death wouldn’t be a burden.”

Mary stopped and forced Sherlock to look at her. “You are not a killer, Sherlock,” she said after studying his eyes. “You can never be sure which death will break you, but one day there will be one if you’re not careful.”

She didn’t flinch when he said, “Speaking from experience?”

“No,” her eyes stayed on Sherlock’s, “I didn’t kill him when I had the chance.”

Sherlock’s brows drew together in confusion.

She placed a hand on his chest, stepped closer, and whispered, “I could have killed John at any time during our courtship, but I didn’t.”

Sherlock gripped her hand, her fingers turning white. “You were supposed to kill me—“

Mary shrugged her shoulders. “The only rule was not to kill you.” She brought her other hand to his chest and traced her fingers down his dress shirt. “Killing John just as you reintroduce yourself has a certain…. poetry to it.”

“But you wouldn’t—” he whispered.

She gently pulled her hands away from Sherlock’s. “Not now, but my old profession may one day get him killed.” Mary sat down on a nearby bench and waited for Sherlock. “I love him,” she said without looking at Sherlock. “John Watson is….sunshine on a rainy day. Being Mary Watson has been the happiest moments of my life, but if I were to do it all again, I would kill John, because this love for my husband, for a child I never wanted but now fiercely need, is death. It has killed me, and I will kill for it.” She turned her eyes on him, all emotion leeching from her gaze, adopting the mask of the assassin, or maybe letting the assassin peek out behind the mask of the wife. “I ask no less of you, Sherlock Holmes.”

She left him sitting on the bench, her steps sure as she walked home. John greeted her with a kiss at the door, Rosie on his hip. Rosie reached for her and Mary cuddled her close, and then said before John could close the door, “Wait a moment. Sherlock will be by in a minute.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**Sherlock’s POV**

            _I am an idiot_ , Sherlock thinks as he rubs his jaw. Mary had just pried John off his throat and ushered both men into the flat; she took a moment to assess Sherlock before throwing him a towel and moving away, probably to see to Rosie.

            John was fuming, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon, hands clenched tight enough he was probably drawing blood. His hair—longer now than when they’d first met—was hanging in front of his eyes, but Sherlock could see the dark glitter of malice. His mouth was compressed into a thin line and his moustache…was bristling. Sherlock tried to clap a hand over his mouth before the laugh escaped, but failed and was met with another attack, this time his back pressed against the door, John’s forearm crushing his throat. Loss of air made him panic, but he couldn’t fight back, not with fists, so he tried to maneuver away from John’s hold, but John pressed his body into Sherlock’s, pinning him to the door. Sherlock wriggled, black spots appearing in his vision, and then John froze and suddenly sprang away as if Sherlock had suddenly scalded him. Sherlock doubled over and drew deep breaths into his lungs.

            “What are you doing here?” John said.

            “Apparently, getting beat up by my doctor,” he replied, wincing as he pressed the towel against his lip. “Do you think it’s serious?”

            John pointed. “I am NOT your doctor. I haven’t been your doctor for three years! You are DEAD!”

            John wasn’t offering, but when had that ever stopped Sherlock: he made himself comfortable in the living room, and said, “Contrary to popular belief, I am not dead.”

            “How are you not dead? I saw you fall! I saw your body!”

            Sherlock fidgeted. “You never checked the other pulse points.”

            John sat down, his mouth open and head tilted to the right. “What?”

            Sherlock produced a red ball from his coat. “I stopped the blood flow,” he put the ball under his arm, “so when you checked, you wouldn’t be able to detect it.” He shrugged, bouncing the ball. “I had a fifty/fifty chance you’d choose the right arm over the left.” Sherlock didn’t have to see John’s face as it lost all color; he knew the man would be mentally wailing and gnashing his teeth.

            John’s eyes followed the ball. “Who else knew?” John whispered.

            “Mycroft, obviously.” John nodded. “And my parents.” John’s eyes widened. “And Molly.”

            And now John looked devastated; he slumped back into his chair as if someone had cut all his strings. He sat there for several minutes, his eyes moving side to side, and Sherlock could see John review every interaction with everyone with a new pair of eyes. Sherlock flinched as John’s gaze cut back to him suddenly. “How long have you been back? Christmas?”

            Sherlock nodded. He’d been back before Rosie was born, and maybe he’d tell John that one day, but right now wasn’t the right moment. Something soft and mostly oval smacked Sherlock in the face, then rolled across the floor to John’s feet. Mary stood in the hallway, hands on hips and glaring at him. John picked up the toy bee, hands shaking. “Before Rosie?”

            Sherlock heard the tremble in John’s voice and began to panic again: he could take John’s anger, but he couldn’t take John’s tears. He opened his mouth in denial, but then John looked at him and words died in his throat. Sherlock was suddenly on his knees before John, unsure how to stop the tears from flowing down John’s cheeks. The sorrow and pain, the abject misery in John’s eyes physically hurt Sherlock, and he didn’t know if he should offer comfort or distance.

           Sherlock froze as John said softly, “Get out.”

           Mary was suddenly standing next to John, Rosie in her arms. John reached for the child and left the room, both bee and child clutched tightly to his chest. Sherlock looked after the pair and felt his heart break. He should have come straight here after he returned, should have groveled at John’s feet then, because clearly, the distance Sherlock chose to give John, watching as John married and had a child, was a deeper betrayal than the Fall. He saw the pieces fall into place: Sherlock could have been there for Rosie’s birth, could have been here to support John during his wedding, could have participated in the happiness gathering around John, and could have been the miracle John had been wishing for. But he hadn’t, and now it was too late.

          Mary gave him a sympathetic look but pushed him to the door. “I’ll talk to him,” she said.

          Sherlock studied her, looking for malice and duplicity, but saw a love so raw it was painful. He knew that love was for John and Rosie, but Sherlock wished for a moment someone would love him as ardently as Mary loved her husband and child. As she closed the door he saw her take a deep breath and steel herself for battle.

         Into battle they would both go.

 

        When Sherlock chose the Lazarus option, he’d thought he’d be gone for at most six months, but when it became eight, and then twelve, and the reports he received from Mycroft about John steadily grew more disturbing, he felt doubt about the viability of his plan. He died to save John—and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade—so John’s grief needed to be real, needed to prove to whoever had the contract on John that Sherlock was dead. He couldn’t protect John in London and dismantle Moriarty’s network, so he needed to take John out of the equation.

        But it was hard, so hard to know that John was in pain and he was unable to comfort him, unwilling to put him in danger to end the pain. This temporary pain was better than a world with no John, so Sherlock stuck to the plan, despite Mycroft’s many recommendations to tell John.

        He almost broke cover when John shot the smiley face. Sherlock had been in Eastern Europe tracking down an associate of Moriarty’s. Mycroft had given him access to the live feed from the flat, so while Sherlock was physically keeping track of the enemy, he was also keeping an eye on the live feed on his laptop. Rapid movement drew his attention and he saw Lestrade yelling at John and Mycroft’s minions searching 221B Baker Street. He rewound the feed and saw John sitting despondently in his—Sherlock’s—chair, gun pointed at the wall.

        “What happened?” he’d demanded when he called Mycroft.

        Mycroft sighed. “Dr. Watson was bored.”

        “John does not shoot the walls when he gets bored!” Sherlock had to work to keep his voice down. He was pacing, pacing, pacing, mind unable to stop spinning. Would John have turned the gun on himself?

        “Not usually; he felt he should give it a try since it seemed to help you,” Mycroft said.

        “Never; John wouldn’t—”

        “He is not the same man. His best friend is dead and he doesn’t have any reason to live—”

        “He’s a doctor—”

        “He was a doctor; he is not anymore.”

        “Since when?”

        “Since he was let go for never going to work; I know you have been reading the reports, brother mine; what did you expect?”

        He’d expected John to soldier on: steady, loyal, John, saving the world one person at a time.

        “There’s only one person he wants to save, Sherlock: you.”

        No, John wanted to save the world; give a voice to the hopeless; punish the wicked; prove that good would always triumph over evil. John reminded him he was human; reminded him that the puzzles he solved were people; reminded him to appreciate a different perspective. John was not suicidal.

        “Come home; save your doctor’s life.”

        “I am—”

        “Will all this be worth it if John is dead when you return?”

        “You said you would protect him—”

        “And I am, but I can only protect him from others; I cannot protect him from himself.”

        “You found all the guns—”

        “There are other ways to kill yourself, Sherlock; you know this.”

        Of course he did; he’d thought of them many times over the years, when the drugs couldn’t stop his mind from racing, couldn’t stop the voices from screaming, couldn’t stop the almost physical pain of loneliness and dread. But Sherlock couldn’t stop now, couldn’t deviate from the plan, couldn’t go home and hug John and tell him it was over, they didn’t need to worry anymore, because if he went home now, it wouldn’t be over, and they’d always be looking over their shoulders. So he charged Mycroft with paying more attention to John’s well-being, and he continued on with the fight.

        He made a critical mistake in Serbia: he was captured and tortured. Unable to defend himself, he sunk deep into his Mind Palace and thought of John. But Mind Palace John was furious, standing at the door to John’s wing and refusing to let Sherlock in. Sherlock begged and pleaded, but John refused to speak, refused to look at him. It wasn’t until the marks on Sherlock’s back started to bleed that John relented: Mind Palace John knelt on the floor and drew Sherlock into his arms, rocking as he soothed Sherlock’s torn body and soul. Sherlock wasn’t going to get out of this alive, and he was so sorry, please forgive me, John, please forgive me; I tried to get home, I tried to go home to you.

        Mycroft extracted him. The look of horror and dismay on his elder brother’s face was difficult to comprehend; it was just transport. But when Sherlock finally looked in a mirror, he found the smooth flesh marred by old and new whiplashes, burns, and wounds; he could see all his ribs and vertebrae. He knew he was vain, knew he could use his body to get almost anything he wanted, knew John appreciated his form, but now there were ghastly marks all along his back in various stages of healing, and for the first time in his life, he was ashamed of his body, ashamed of its weakness. He wanted to hide it, wanted to erase it.

        But he wanted to see John more than anything, so he dressed, his clothing not as fit as he’d like but he didn’t see the point of having a new suit made when John was going to force him to eat anyway. He walked into that restaurant, saw John with the woman, and couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring himself to tell John he was alive, couldn’t bring himself to mar this moment for John, who was proposing to the woman, Mary. He returned to Mycroft’s and hid, letting his brother coddle him until he was healthy again, watching from afar as John married and had a child.

        Mycroft almost got him to reveal himself at Christmas, but Sherlock shied away at the last moment. He watched John through the window as he gently touched Sherlock’s childhood things, seeing the sad smile grace John’s weary face. How could he tell John he was still alive? How could he reopen the wound? John was fine, he was moving on.

        But that didn’t stop Sherlock from stalking John and his new family; didn’t stop Sherlock from renting the townhouse across the street so he could watch John’s comings and goings; didn’t stop Sherlock from memorizing John’s work schedule; didn’t stop him from having the Homeless Network keep tabs on John. Sherlock couldn’t be in John’s life, but he would make sure John was taken care of, would make sure no one hurt this little family, this family he desperately wanted to call his own.

        But he was an idiot. The danger had been with John all along, in the form of Mary; but she hadn’t completed the contract, had in fact, fallen in love with John and given him a child. John’s presence blinded Sherlock to the danger already surrounding him. What was it about John that he collected sociopaths like other people collected cars? Does John know Mary was an assassin? Probably not. Does Mycroft? Probably…not. Mycroft wouldn’t have let John marry an assassin if he had known, right? Hmm, Mary’s past would need to be kept a secret between them for now.

        Instead of returning to the flat across the street from John, Sherlock decided it was time to get his life going again. He visited Mrs. Hudson first, then Molly, and then Lestrade. Everyone was happy to see him, even Lestrade who actually hugged him. And then the world knew as the nightly news proclaimed his vindication. Sherlock stood in 221B Baker Street, as if he’d never gone. Everything was as John left it when he moved out, which is how Sherlock had left it when he’d died. It was surreal to step back into the flat as if time had never passed them by. But Sherlock could feel the skin on his back as it twisted in new ways, and knew that while everything looked the same, he was no longer the same, and neither was John.

 

**John’s POV**

            John stood in Rosie’s room, watching her sleep. He could stand for hours just watching her sleep, her little hands fisted around that bee, the bee that was from Sherlock, not Mycroft. He had to remind himself to unclench his fists; he didn’t want to be angry in Rosie’s room, which is why he was here, avoiding all the emotions Sherlock’s resurrection was bringing up. He felt Mary stand at his shoulder, a gentle brush of her hand along his back; she leaned down and peered into the crib, watching the sleeping Rosie for a moment. Then she took his hand and drew him away from the sleeping child, into the kitchen.

            He watched her make tea, her movements smooth and confident. How had she known Sherlock was alive?

            “I saw him,” she said, placing a mug in front of John. “He wasn’t disguised, just standing at a crosswalk. I’m not sure if he meant to get caught, but I couldn’t just let him fade into the background again.”

            “Today?”

            Mary shook her head. “It’s been a couple weeks.”

            The anger was swift, but Mary didn’t flinch, just kept her gaze steady. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            She sipped her tea. “He wasn’t ready.”

            John stood up. “ _He_ wasn’t ready? He’s been back since before—”

            She nodded.

            “How did you know he’d been back that long ago?”

            She shrugged. “Seemed like a good deduction. Mycroft started getting pushy around that time, seemingly for no reason. Now we know Sherlock was back and was probably pestering Mycroft. I don’t know why Sherlock felt the need to hide in plain sight, but he wasn’t ready for a confrontation with you that first day.”

            “He was ready today?”

            “Nope, but I was done waiting.”

            What the hell was going on? Who is this woman? How could she so easily manipulate Sherlock into revealing himself? And he could see it now, how she had maneuvered the conversation so that Sherlock needed to admit to the truth: that he’d been back for a while but unwilling to tell John. How could Sherlock do that to him? He’d thought Sherlock had cared, but now he wasn’t sure. How could someone pretend to be dead and let those who love them suffer through the loss?

            John didn’t realize he was crying until Mary drew him into her arms. He held on tight, his tears soaking her shirt; she brushed her hands in his hair, swaying from side-to-side. “It will be okay,” she said.

            “How do you know?”

            She leaned back. “Because you’re John Watson.”

            “What does that even mean?” he said.

            She pulled him back to her body, fitting them together like puzzle pieces. “There can be no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson, just as there can be no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes.”

            “How can you say that? You’re my wife.” John was lost.

            She smiled sadly. “Come now, John. We both know I was a placeholder for Sherlock.”

            “That’s not—”

            She placed a finger on his lips. “It is true. You love him, and you love…me?”

            “Of course I do! I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t.”

            Mary smiled and it was like the sun peeking from behind a cloud; John was dazzled for a moment. “Then we’ll have to make it work.”

            John pushed away from her. “I don’t want it to work. I want him to go away again.” He turned his back and crossed his arms.

            Mary placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t mean—”

            “I do!” he said, spinning around. “How could he leave me like that? I thought we were—”

            “Friends?”

            That wasn’t exactly what he thought, but it was close enough. “Yes, friends,” he said, sitting down again, his head hanging over his knees.

            Mary knelt down in front of him. “I’m sure he had his reasons. Talk to him.”

            John turned his face away. “I don’t want to.”

            Mary pursed her lips. “So you’re just going to mope?”

            “I just found out my best friend, who has been dead for three years, is now alive; I think I am entitled to be upset.”

            Mary stood. “Upset, yes. But you’re a grown man, John, and an army doctor, and you have a family that needs you. So you need to man up and talk to your best friend, ask him what the hell he was thinking when he pretended to jump off a fucking building and leave you in the dark.”

            “I already know what he’s going to say…”

            “Then why are you fighting this? Why won’t you talk to him?”

            “Because he could have been here! Could have been there to see Rosie when she was born! Could have been my best man! Could have stopped me from hurting!” John picked up his mug and threw it across the room; it shattered on the ground.

            After a long moment, Mary said, “Is that all?”

            _No, that’s not all,_ he thought, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Mary when he couldn’t admit it to himself. He felt her arms come around his waist as she pressed herself against him. “I know,” she said, but he didn’t think she really did, not really.

            “I’ll talk to him tomorrow, after work,” he said, patting Mary’s arm as she squeezed him. He didn’t want to talk to Sherlock, didn’t want to experience his heart being ripped open again, but he knew Mary was right, and he wanted them to like each other, wanted them both in his life. He would find a way to make it work…for Mary.

 

           


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**John’s POV**

            There was a mob in front of 221B Baker Street; John almost turned around, he could come back some other time, but at that moment someone yelled and suddenly everyone was running away, so John pulled his key out and slipped through the door before anyone could see him. He hoped it was Sherlock they were mobbing now; he drew a perverse delight at the thought.

            “John,” Sherlock said, sitting in his chair.

            John laughed…and found he couldn’t stop. Nothing was funny, nothing had been funny since Sherlock died, nothing was ever going to be funny again, but here he was, laughing, as his best friend, the gigantic asshole of a man, sat looking at him perplexed. John doubled over, hands on knees, as he tried to catch his breath between chortles, but couldn’t, unable to bring any oxygen into his lungs, his chest squeezing tight in fear. This wasn’t real; Sherlock wasn’t really here; John had finally jumped off the deep end; John was never going to recover, not even for Mary and Rosie; he was going to be locked up and medicated and he’d never know happiness again.           

            “John, John, John,” he heard softly.

            When he opened his eyes he found he’d collapsed and someone was holding him close, saying his name as if in prayer. A breath shuddered into his lungs, and Sherlock’s smell pervaded his senses, and suddenly he knew this wasn’t a dream: Sherlock was here, clutching him and whispering his name, offering comfort. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and breathed deep, feeling his world center in his chest again. “You jumped, you daft bastard! Don’t ever do that to me again!”

            Sherlock rubbed his back and said, “I won’t. I’ll never do that again, John.”

            John pulled back and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, running his eyes over every inch, cataloguing the split lip he’d given him last night. Sherlock looked confused and frightened, so John pulled him back into a hug and sighed, letting himself feel everything in this moment, the love and relief welling up in his heart. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s back, felt Sherlock stiffen, and then felt the uneven skin beneath the shirt. Sherlock tried to pull away, but John held on tight, pulling Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers. “Let me see,” he said, beginning to unbutton Sherlock’s dress shirt.

            Sherlock succeeded in pulling away. “No,” he said, re-buttoning his shirt.

            John chased him, holding firmly to Sherlock’s long-fingered hands. He cupped those hands in his, noticing the thickening of the skin from fighting, and little cuts he hadn’t been there to heal. Sherlock shuddered as John ran his fingers over the scarring. “Please,” John whispered.

            Sherlock hung his head, but unbuttoned his shirt, letting John see his back. The skin was fully healed, but John knew torture when he saw it; he brushed his fingertips along each one, wishing he could take the marks away. “When?”

            “A little over a year ago,” Sherlock replied. His spine was straight, as if waiting for another blow.

            John ran his callused hands down Sherlock’s back, applying a little pressure, to soothe; then he wrapped Sherlock in his arms, pressing his head to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John’s wrists and they stood there, drawing comfort from each other. John pressed a kiss to one mark, then another to a different mark; he stopped at the third mark, feeling the tension in Sherlock’s body begin to heighten again. He carefully stepped back and helped Sherlock with his shirt, watching the tall man button and tuck his shirt back into his trousers.

            “Tea?” John said, needing a moment.

            “Yes,” Sherlock replied, and sat back down in his chair.

            The ritual of making tea always soothed John, so by the time the tea was ready, he was mostly comfortable in his skin again. Sherlock took the cup and smiled as he sipped. “I missed this.”

            John took his seat, and sipped his own tea. “Me too.” Sherlock’s split lip made him cringe, so he said, “I’m sorry for punching you yesterday.”

            Sherlock put his cup down. “It’s the least I deserve, John; I didn’t realize how much my death would hurt you.”

            “Even so, I shouldn’t have done it.”

            “I thought you always heard, ‘punch me in the face’ when I talked?” Sherlock’s eyes glittered.

            John snorted and nodded. “Still do.”

            Sherlock leaned forward. “Where do we go from here, John? I had thought, when I came back, we’d pick up from where we left off, but you’re married with a child; you can’t chase criminals with me anymore.”

            John’s eyebrows rose. “Who says I can’t?”

            Sherlock opened his arms, as if trying to get John to see his life. “John, what would happen to Mary and Rosie if something happened to you while we’re on a case?”

            “You would take care of them,” John said stubbornly.

            “Of course I would; but that’s your job, the one that trumps all. I can’t ask you to be my blogger and partner again, and I don’t know how to be your friend without either.” Sherlock sat back with a huff.

            John tilted his head and said, “What are you talking about? I’m not your friend because of the cases, because of the danger. You’re my best friend because I love spending time with you, you gigantic git.”

            Sherlock stilled, processing. “I’m your best friend?”

            John rolled his eyes. “Is it not obvious?”

            Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You wanted to kill me yesterday.”

            John nodded. “Well, you spent the last three years pretending to be dead.”

            Sherlock sighed. “I am sorry, John. Moriarty said he would kill you if I didn’t jump.”

            “I figured it must be something like that. Was it just me?” John sipped his tea.

            “Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too.”

            “Snipers?”

            Sherlock nodded.

            “How’d you do it?”

            Sherlock stood to look out the window. “There were a few options. I didn’t expect Moriarty to kill himself, though. Lazarus seemed the best way to go, in case Mycroft wasn’t able to locate all the snipers before I had to jump. The Homeless Network helped, staging the scene and distracting you.”

            John digested this, and then asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

         Sherlock looked at him. “I couldn’t risk it. They were watching; I couldn’t risk your safety.”

            “But you could risk your own?” John said standing.

            “Yes,” he said, “I will always risk my life for yours, John. You are the most important person in my life.”

            “Then how could you let me think you were dead? I don’t understand!” John pulled his hair in frustration.

            “Better to be alive and think I’m dead, then dead when I come back to life,” Sherlock whispered.

            “You had no right to choose that! You should have told me! I could have helped you! Maybe all that,” John waved his hands, indicating Sherlock’s back, “could have been avoided.”

            Sherlock nodded. “Maybe, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

            They stood staring at each other for a few minutes, John seeing a vulnerability in Sherlock that hadn’t been there before. Sherlock appeared to be wound tight, like he would shatter at the lightest touch. Neither of them were good with expressing emotions, but John needed to try. “I can’t…no, that’s not the right word…I’m still hurt. I need a little time to fully feel that you’re here, that you’re alive. I want to come back, to be your blogger and partner, but I now have a family. You’re right: I can’t put myself in danger, but not all cases end with danger, so we’ll just be careful.”

            Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes wide. “I will do anything you want, John, anything.”

            John nodded. “I think you should probably say a few words to your fans outside, otherwise they’re never going to leave.”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes and John could hear him think, _do I have to?_ But he pulled on his great coat and the hat. At the bottom of the stairs, John said, “You know I asked you to not be dead.”    

            Sherlock turned, popping his collar. “I heard you.”

 

**Sherlock’s POV**

            Despite John’s assurances they were still friends and would still see each other, Sherlock didn’t see him for almost a month—and then it was only a happy accident. Sherlock was on a case when John came waltzing into the drug den to pick up some drug addled kid; he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “me too?” when John said he was there to get Isaac. John’s face at that moment was beautiful: shocked, angry, and amused.

            “What are you doing?” John yelled.

            “I’m on a case,” Sherlock replied.

            “In a drug den?”

            “Not anymore.”

            A car came trundling toward them, Mary at the wheel. “Get in,” John growled.

            “Can I come too?” a voice said, and Sherlock turned to see his drug dealer, Billy, limping along, holding his arm to his chest as if injured.

            “It’s just a sprain,” John snapped.

            “Feels like it’s broken,” Billy said.

            “Did you injure my drug dealer?” Sherlock said as he clambered into the car with Billy and Isaac.

            John clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. “We’re going to Bart’s.”

            “What for?”

            “To give you a drug test.”

            “I’m not on drugs, John.”

            “I don’t believe you. I just found you in a drug den.”

            “It’s for a case!”

            “What case?”

            Sherlock shut is mouth with an audible click. “I can’t tell you.”

            John punched the dash, making everyone jump, even Mary who had been silent during the whole exchange. After dropping Isaac and Mary off at the flat, John drove Sherlock and Billy to St. Bart’s, where Molly administered a drug test. After the test came back negative, Sherlock expected an apology, but instead John just left, still pissed off. Sherlock didn’t know if he should chase after John or just let the whole thing blow over.

            “Let him walk it off,” Molly said. “He thought you were trying to kill yourself.”

            “It’s for a case.” _Why is everyone always second guessing me?_ he thought.

            “I expect he’ll realize that and apologize later,” Molly replied, cleaning up the lab.

            Since his cover was blown, Sherlock went home, leaving Billy at St. Bart’s to sort himself out. He wanted to strangle Billy for pulling a knife on John, but restrained himself: John had taken care of himself, as always. As Sherlock shaved a day’s stubble away before jumping into the shower, he thought about John, easily taking out his drug dealer with no weapon in hand; Sherlock would have loved to see it, John’s movements precise and calculated to harm without breaking bones.

            Most people only saw Dr. John Watson, an amiable man who put up with the high functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock knew upon meeting John that the doctor bit was a mask; being a doctor was important to John’s identity, but being a Captain defined John, and when it was taken away because he was invalided, it almost drove John to suicide. A chance meeting with Mike Stamford saved John’s—and Sherlock’s—life. Captain Watson lurked just beneath the veneer of Dr. Watson, and every time the former stepped forward, Sherlock felt giddy. Watching John at Baskerville was ambrosia: Sherlock spent weeks analyzing John’s every move, trying out different scenarios in his Mind Palace to get John to respond as Captain Watson again. The Captain came out when Sherlock was in danger, so if Sherlock avoided telling John the particulars of a case just so Captain Watson came to his rescue, who could blame him? John, of course, and John would yell at him, but it was always worth it.

            Sherlock almost dropped his towel when he stepped into the kitchen, skin still damp with heat. John stood at the table, Chinese takeout plated and ready to eat, mouth open to speak but no sound coming out. There was a duffle on the ground near the door, and John flushed when he saw Sherlock looking at it. Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to come in with a tea tray, saw the bag, and said, “Having a bit of a domestic?”

            John cleared his throat, spine straight. “Mary kicked me out.”

            Sherlock hadn’t moved and now Mrs. Hudson paused too.

            “John—” Sherlock started.

            But John pressed on, voice higher pitched as he said, “She said I should ‘kiss and make up’ with Sherlock; I was a bit of a prat this morning.” John looked down, running a finger over the table.

            Mrs. Hudson placed the tea tray on the counter and patted John on his shoulder. “I’m sure he deserved it, dearie,”—Sherlock scowled--, “live and let live I always say.” She breezed through the door, escaping the growing tension between Sherlock and John.

            Sherlock, towel wrapped around his hips, sat down at the table and John made two cups of tea. They ate in silence, each lost, unable to find the easy peace usually between them. Eventually John said, “I’m sorry, Sherlock; I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat this morning.”

            “No, no, you couldn’t have known I wasn’t actually using; we haven’t seen each other in a while.”

            “Even so, I know you and I should have listened.” John poked chow mein around his chopsticks.

            “I forgive you,” Sherlock said when the silence became too uncomfortable. His eyes flickered over to the bag. “Did she really kick you out?”

            John laughed, shoving food into his mouth. “Told me to have a boy’s night out; not to come back until tomorrow; I have, apparently, been smothering her.”

            Sherlock smiled, happy to have John in his home for however long he wanted to stay. “Your room is still available.”

            “Haven’t found a new flat mate?”

            “Who would want me for a flat mate?”

            “What about your drug dealer?” John said mildly.

            Sherlock pushed his plate away, half done but full. “Can’t be having a drug dealer in the flat if Rosie—” He stopped, the tips of his ears reddening.

            A corner of John’s mouth turned up. “Do you want to see Rosie?”

            Yes, yes, he did. He’d seen the child from afar; was there when she was in the nursery at the hospital; but he’d never been close enough to touch her. Would she look at all like John? Would she smell like John? Did she pick up any of John’s mannerisms? Or was she more like Mary? He wanted to study Rosie, wanted to dissect which parts were John and which parts were Mary.

            Sherlock felt John’s hand cover his and squeeze. “I’ll bring her by soon then.” John then packed up the left overs and refreshed the tea, sitting in his chair while Sherlock dressed, excitement thrumming through his veins. John would bring Rosie here, or maybe they could go to the park so he could see how she interacted with other people, or the zoo, or a greenhouse. Did she enjoy music? The possibilities were almost endless.

            Sherlock was practically vibrating in his chair later. John looked amused. “I wasn’t sure what your thoughts were on children.”

            “They tend to be more intelligent than adults. I’d rather deal with a child than an adult; children are open to new ideas while adults are already set in their ways.”

            Sherlock didn’t normally interact with children, but that didn’t mean he was incapable or unwilling. John was his only friend, and the only person who would probably be comfortable with Sherlock handling his child, though probably with heavy supervision.

            John picked up the paper. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while; working on any cases you can talk about?” he said, opening the front page.

            Sherlock catalogued John as he formulated an answer: John was a little uncomfortable. His face was hidden by the paper, but Sherlock could see John’s toes clenching and unclenching in his shoes, his left knee trembling. Would their chemistry be the same after being absent for three years, or had each of them changed enough that they’d continue to drift apart? Sherlock needed John to be here, needed John to be the anchor in his life; the Work was so much easier with John. “I have a job.”

            John’s eyebrows rose. “A client?”

            “No, an actual job.”

            John put down the paper, his mouth agape. “As in, you get paid? How long have you had a job?”

            Sherlock shrugged. “A while; I needed a legit way in.”

            “What are you doing?”

            “Security.”

            John looked away, his face blank. Sherlock could see the gears turning, John trying to picture Sherlock actually going to work, doing mundane tasks to pass the seemingly endless hours. “Couldn’t bluff your way in?”

            Sherlock stood and looked out the window; traffic was slow today. “Not into this office, no; might have been able to have an affair with the secretary, but women aren’t my thing.”

            John scoffed.

            Sherlock whirled. “What?”

            “The great Sherlock Holmes: unable to seduce a woman,” he said, shaking his head.

            Sherlock stalked over to John’s seat, looming. “I can seduce anyone; I am just unwilling to seduce a woman.”

            John smirked. “Really? Anyone?”

            Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John was confident in his sexuality, easily able to attract the attention of the opposite sex. For as long as they’d known each other, John had dated women exclusively, though there was a moment, when they’d first met, when John appeared to be open to the idea of dating Sherlock. But Sherlock had turned him down, and John had focused all his attention on finding a girlfriend. And he had found them, one after another, each of them driven away by John’s preoccupation with Sherlock. John’s failure to keep a girlfriend secretly thrilled Sherlock, and both Mrs. Hudson’s and Irene’s insistence that they were a couple was exhilarating and amusing because John denied it so vehemently.

            John’s challenge was unexpected but welcome. Sherlock wouldn’t take it too far because there was Mary and Rosie to think about, but he’d make John think twice about second guessing him. He sat down in his chair and watched John’s smug look turn to trepidation; he swallowed and looked at the paper again, hiding his face. Sherlock smiled and leaned back, prepared to wait until John was unprepared to resist. The game was on.

 

 

 

 


End file.
